


The Wild Bird Means It

by falsehoodwinked



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Also Patton but only once, Alternate Universe - Wings, Blood and Injury, Deceit's name is Lyle and You Can't Stop Me, Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, M/M, Maximum Ride Au, Mild Blood, Virgil and Remy Cuss, Whump, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-04 09:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20469032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsehoodwinked/pseuds/falsehoodwinked
Summary: The caged bird may sing, but the first taste of freedom renders the tune unapologetic and vengeful.Upon escape from the Lab, the four find themselves on the run as they juggle enjoying freedom and keeping it. One would think that having a set of wings would mean having the world at your fingertips instead of at your throat, but life is funny that way.





	1. That I Might Drink and Leave the Word Unseen

**Author's Note:**

> This fiction was heavily inspired by the Maximum Ride series by James Patterson; as of now, the story is largely incomplete and scripted together by key scenes that have haunted me for approximately a week. The title of the first chapter is from “Ode to a Nightingale” by John Keats.

“We can’t stay for long.”

Logan’s warning is half-hearted at best; exhaustion puppets his friends as their heads bob more on instinct than in understanding. Even Roman, who rarely allows his wings to droop, is a breath away from sleeping where he stands, shoulders sagging a touch too deeply. The tips of his white feathers dust the sandy gravel at their feet, and he moves only when Virgil knocks lightly against his shoulder. Logan isn’t entirely sure the bat isn’t simply swaying on his feet, but the motion appears to jostle them both into something resembling awareness. At the very least, it forces Roman to retake his weight, and stock of his surroundings.

The four have landed on some forgotten farming road that is probably named in numbers. Weeds eat at the tire-flattened path, bleeding quickly into miles and miles of fields hidden behind a thin hedge of concrete thicket and trees that are simultaneously tweedy and stalwart. It’s not the kind of wilderness ripped from fairytales, but instead the unkempt, discolored breed of brush that one expects of unfarmed and malnourished grassland.

The reason they’ve stopped - outside of the way the sinking sun torches orange behind a scraggly patch of trees at the horizon - is for the gas station. At least, that’s what Logan assumes it was. The building has long since fallen into a state of disrepair. The corroded brick is tracked by vines that creep along crevices and burrow new paths along its crumbling exterior. Even the small patchwork lot is riddled with brittle foliage and chunks of broken, bleached asphalt. Though at one point there was a sign painted across the wall, Logan can’t make out what the chipped paint once said - even the upper layers of graffiti are illegible, worn and partially covered by new growth. Combined with the ripped-out pumps and the slather of broken glass in front of the windows, their temporary refuge strikes a humble cord between hazardous and forsaken.

“Homey,” Roman quips wryly, but nestled in between his words is relief - it’s a far cry from the sterilized cells they are used to, with impenetrable walls and tiles that shine with polish that’s removed their blood. The thought is macabre, but Logan can’t help but nod at the unspoken sentiment. 

“Oh, it’s nice,” says Patton, finally stirring when Roman flicks the back of his head - it’s a playful action, but it speaks volumes that Patton’s usual gumption requires any prodding at all. He is generally the first - if not the only - to dig into the worst of a situation and triumphantly tug loose the silver-lining. Still, the fire is lit, and Logan feels a few knots in his gut unwind when Patton’s luminescent feathers buzz ever so slightly. It’s not enough to rocket him into the air like he’s prone to do, but it’s comforting. 

Comforting, Logan realizes, but not as soothing as it probably ought to be. The shortest of their flock looks haggard. The fluff in his blonde hair is plastered down with sweat, and the flush of his checks seems unusually sharp on his atypically pale skin. The unsteady way Patton holds himself is also concerning, but only because Logan had always paid attention when their captors prattled on over their biology. Patton’s hummingbird splicing is likely not handling their newly sparse eating habits particularly well. While the smallest of them isn’t one to complain, Logan is aware of the fact that the blonde’s patron donor consumes almost seventy-seven times the amount of energy a human would need. Granted, Patton isn’t handling that large a caloric demand...but the lethargy isn’t promising.

Logan sucks in a breath as his eyes sweep away from Patton and take inventory of the rest of his flock: they look, as Roman would say, ‘like shit’. Patton’s hunger is obvious, but no one is looking to be in good shape. Virgil is probably faring the worst, after Patton; Logan watches the shorter boy rouse himself, catches the uncomfortable way he shifts his shoulders as he takes in the building Logan has picked to store themselves for the night. The bags under his eyes are made somehow more prominent by the way his gaze traces the broken windows and busted door. His feet shuffle, and Logan lays a preemptive hand on Virgil’s shoulders when the other tips just a hair too far to the right. 

Virgil’s genetic makeup is composed of roughly 5% Golden Crowned Flying Fox DNA. Which, frankly, is far more significant that it sounds. In some ways, perhaps even more than it looks, in spite of the leathered wings that are currently flagging. While Virgil isn’t entirely nocturnal, Logan theorizes that it contributes to his long days and longer nights. Logan doubts he’s rested since the escape, a little more than forty-two hours ago...and strongly suspects he seldom slept before.

The teen startles at Logan’s touch, winces, and then jerks his shoulder free from the weight.

“This isn’t-” Virgil works his jaw indecisively, “Should we be…? I dunno, stopping so soon?”

“So_ soon_?” Roman might have whined if he wasn’t trying very hard not to do that, “We’ve been flying _forever_ \- Logan, say some smart stuff at him. Like, pull out some multi-syllable words for eat and sleep make him see reason.” 

Logan raises a brow at the other - perhaps not too kindly - but starts to nod.

“See? Logan’s on my side. We’re safe.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’re safe,” Logan retorts as sternly and gently as he can while being both those things at once, “but all of us are...weathered. Virgil, you need a substantial amount of rest, and Patton is in need of nutrition.”

Unintentionally, Patton’s head shoots up at the prospect of food, and he unconsciously runs his tongue over the dry cracks in his lips.

“Right,” Virgil practically hisses, days without sleep resting heavy on his temper, “I forgot that the White Coats agreed to give us nap time and a snack before they decide to actually start hunting us again. Silly me.”

Roman looks like he might have a word or twenty in response, but Patton’s stomach makes an ugly noise. The blonde has the wherewithal to look embarrassed, but that doesn’t stop him from eyeing the bag strapped to Roman’s back

“Can - I’m sorry, I just,” Patton swallows hard, “Before we argue, can we eat? Just a little?”

Roman’s face twists into something like guilt, and in the same breath the pack is on the ground, flung open as he pulls out a handful of energy ars and shoves them Patton’s way.

“Don’t eat it all in one place,” he tries to joke, but Patton’s already ripping open the wrapping of his second bar. Logan hadn’t even seen the first go down, and tries not to notice the way the blonde is almost brought to tears by stale granola.

They’ll have to stop more frequently. He’s just not sure where they are going to fit it in. But they will. They’ll have to; for Patton’s sake, and Virgil’s. Even Roman - who might be doing better than the other two physically, but it isn’t as though the hybrid isn’t running on fumes. Even if he weren’t, the fact that no one has said anything about-

“Hey, L?” Roman waves a hand in front of Logan’s face before the taller of the two realizes he’s been quiet for too long, “Know you’re a fan of space and all, Cadet, but your head’s only allowed in the clouds when we’re airborne, alright?” he says playfully, but the unvoiced worry is hidden somewhere in the words. Logan nods.

“Of course,” he clears his throat over Patton’s content chewing, “Virgil, I understand your concern. We’ll be taking shifts, naturally, so in the unlikely event we are spotted, we can leave long before they near us.“

“I can take first watch then. Creature of the night, and all that,” Virgil offers, flexing his wings ever so slightly. As if anyone needs a reminder.

“Ideally, yes, in the future I’m hoping you’ll be in charge of accepting the first or second shift. For tonight though, I’m requesting you take the third or fourth - you’ve been up the longest, and we all need to be our best,” Logan stares at him pointedly, and Virgil huffs. It’s not an agreement, but it’s acceptance. He can work with that.

Patton says something around his food, which is endearingly muffled by the last swallow he’s wrestling with.

“What was that, Munchingbird?” Roman teases, and Patton grins around his bite before he swipes delightedly at his mouth.

“Thanks for the food - but uh, we might need to restock soon,” he admits, looking down as if he’s guilty. 

Roman rolls his eyes, stealing the response clean of Logan’s tongue, “Pat, don’t worry about that. We’ve got,” he flicks a look toward the pack, and Logan catches a twang of surprise in his expression before he picks up the rest of his sentence as if having never paused at all, “look at that! Plenty for tonight, and we can scrounge something up later. Right, guys?”

“Yeah, no sweat, Patton,” Virgil assures, and Logan is grateful to note that he seems to be trying to claw himself out of his funk, even if his gaze does prematurely stray toward the sky with aching, fleeting distrust, “I’m not feeling too hungry anyway. Might snag a bar though,” he adds when he Logan raises an expectant brow at him.

"That's wise," Logan hums approvingly, hesitating only briefly before adding "but as for 'scrounging'...I think it may be time we consider..." Logan takes a breath, "going into town. Possibly a store."

All three give him startled looks, all of a distinct nature. Roman looks delighted; he's been romanticizing the cities they've flown over for hours, cooing at bright lights and begging to land, even if they can only figuratively hover on the outskirts. Patton is just about as excited, and now that he's got some energy to burn, his tittering wings do actually have him hovering - enough that Roman chuckles as he grabs the hem of the blonde's shirt to pull him back down. Even Virgil smirks fondly at the sheepish grin Patton offers, but it seems to pale in comparison to the uncertainty in his eyes.

"Um, Logan? When you say 'a store'-" Virgil prompts, just in time for Roman's chest to swell.

"Brilliant! Oh, what should we buy?" he muses wistfully.

"With what_ money _?" Virgil adds, and Roman waves him off.

"Oh! I want - can we get candy? And Mr. Picani gave me cake, once!" Patton adds fondly, "Can we do that? And - Roman, what did you call that thing? The um - it's cold-?"

"Ice cream!" Roman cheers triumphantly, "Yes! Excellent suggestion Patton."

"So what, we all just pile into the nearest city?" Virgil asks with a snort, "Should we take turns painting targets on our backs?" he catches Roman's withering look and sighs, "Look, I'm not trying to be the bad guy here - but you guys are acting like this is a road trip more than like, a 'run for our lives' situation. Not to rain on anyone's parade, it's just like...we are in actual danger and I shouldn't be the only one acting like it, I guess," he shrugs, and Patton lands a bit closer to him, running a sympathetic hand over his shoulder.

"I share your concern, Virgil," Logan admits, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, "I'm not pleased with my own solution - and were there anyway I could find to procure supplies at the rate we need while staying on the move, then trust me when I say I would be suggesting that instead."

For his part, Virgil looks quite suddenly heavy, and tired, and he shrugs, "Yeah, I know, Specs. I mean, I'd guess, so - it’s just...Sorry."

"You hardly have a reason to apologize. All of us have been put in a difficult situation. We're handling our circumstances admirably," he says, "All of us."

"Yeah!" Patton chirps, looking much less likely to nap in the dirt, "And it's been so fun! I know it's serious and we have to be careful," he adds, looking hopefully at Virgil, "And I know it's dangerous...but I am actually really excited to go to a city...a store, even!" he's grinning until he looks almost a bit shameful, "Is that okay?"

"We've never been before. It's natural to feel something about a new experience, no matter what that feeling is, I imagine." Logan replies, “That being said, we will exercise caution. We know there are Envoys who will be looking for us.”

“Fuck those things,” Virgil hisses and Patton gasps.

“We aren’t supposed to use that language!” at the same time Roman’s fists clench, “They aren’t _ things _!”

Virgil’s eyes go wide as his head whips toward Roman, “No, I didn’t mean-”

“They’re _ not _,” Roman stresses, and Logan purses his lips. He should have left that particular thought unsaid. He clears his throat - they can’t afford to let things escalate here, not before they’ve rested. In fact, if fortune favors them even a fraction, maybe they won’t have to talk about it for a long, long while. However, Logan isn’t a fool. He knows this topic can’t be benched forever. But, perhaps, they can table it for now - if only because if Virgil and Roman fight...well. It’s not going to be pleasant, and right now they have more on their plate than hurt feelings.

“Virgil misspoke,’ Logan says diplomatically, and Virgil’s chin - thankfully - dips in agreement.

“I just meant, it’s bad they’re looking for us.”

“And he didn’t mean to say ‘fuck’,” Patton clarifies before his eyes go comically wide at having realized that he has, in fact, just cursed. 

Roman is looking at all of them, his previous cavalier attitude replaced by eyes that are perhaps a bit too bright and wet until he rubs absently at them with his sleeve, before he sniffs, “Patton has to donate to the swear jar,” he says offhandedly, and Patton looks stricken.

“I - but! _ Roman!” _ he stammers, genuinely distressed, and Virgil clears his throat.

“Speaking of money though - seriously, how do we plan on getting some? Robbing a store isn’t exactly the hallmark of a low profile.”

This time, it’s Logan’s turn to look...almost embarrassed as he clears his throat, “Erm, we will actually be making the purchase with cash.”

Virgil looks dumbstruck, and Patton tilts his head.

“We have money?” he asks, glancing between Roman and Virgil as if he fears he might have missed something earlier.

Roman blinks, “Not that I’m aware of.”

Trying to keep his face impassive, Logan retrieves a wallet from his back pocket, “Dr. Picani is very graciously - if not purposefully - going to fund a small portion of our escape.”

Patton’s hands clap over his mouth just as VIrgil smirks and Roman laughs.

“Logan!” Patton yelps, “But Mr. Picani was nice!”

“I doubt he’d mind,” Roman points out, “I always got the impression the guy was a beat away from letting us out all on his own.”

“Regardless” Logan shoves the wallet back into place, “We’ll likely be stopping tomorrow. We’re bound to run into a reasonably sized city within the next several hundred miles - we’ll restock, and then continue heading West.”

“And then we’ll live all on our own! A nice, pretty mountain!” Patton cheers.

“Precisely,” the tallest of the flock confirms, “But until then...Virgil and Patton, Roman and I will help you find a clean spot in the station. Roman…?”

He picks up the bright red pack of his off the ground, slinging it over his shoulder, “No worries, L. I’ve still got a lighter in here somewhere. We can make a nice little fire out of like. The dead leaves around here. Shouldn’t burn on the tiles.”

For once Virgil seems to relax at that. If anything, they all do. They could survive out in the wild, once they had a stable refuge. Set up a garden, learn to hunt...A place where the world would forget them just as easily as they wanted to forget it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it never comes up in the fic; while it's pretty obvious that most major characters are spliced with birds - each does have a specific breed if anyone is into that:
> 
> Logan is spliced with an African Grey, mostly because it is not only one of the most intelligent birds we currently recognize as such, but also because it is the only known species to have asked a question (that being what color it was). Because Logan represents Logic, and I headcanon him to be an evolved trait of Curiosity, it seems fitting. General intelligence and the pursuit of knowledge are staples of both the bird, and Logan.
> 
> Patton's patron donor, as stated in this chapter, is a Violet Sabrewing Hummingbird for a few reasons - outside of coloration which, while not exactly Patton's trademark blue, does seem vibrant and playful in a way that I personally associate with Patton's character. Additionally, Hummingbirds match Patton's boundless energy, and the fact that they can fly so well forward and backward (unlike many other species) really plays the sheer bounciness, energy, and optimism that Patton exudes. 
> 
> Roman is none other than the Trumpeter Swan - the loudest and biggest thing out there. While I almost went with the Golden Pheasant because of this - and how red the bird is in general, I kept with the swan. This is largely because while Roman's signature flare almost demands some kind of acknowledgement, I think his Knight in Shining Armor/Prince motif can fit really well with 'angel' wings, and is befitting of the way he tries to idolize and portray himself. In essence, not only are Trumpeter Swan's singing machines equipped with stunning plumage, they are extra as hell and Roman deserves no less.
> 
> Finally, Virgil's was also stated, but he's the only mammal flyer in the Flock. This is in reference to his Dark Side origins, and is a way to visually distinguish him in the group - but also as a way to reinforce Virgil's almost 'creepy' vibe that he seems almost proud of at points. Coupled with the his chosen Halloween costume being Dracula, and the fandom hammering it into me that Virgil is probably an insomniac...Well. 
> 
> Anyway, in this fic:
> 
> Logan is the tallest, and the oldest. He's 17.  
Roman is the second tallest, and is 16.  
Vigil is only a little shorter than Roman, but is 16 as well.  
Finally, Patton is not only the shortest, but the youngest at 15.


	2. At the Devil’s Booth Are All Things Sold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from James Russel’s 'The Vision of Sir Lunafal'.

Virgil wakes to white feathers trying climb up his nose. He pushes at Roman's massive wing with a leaden hand, clambering into wakefulness with all the grace of a slinky sidewinding down a staircase. Beside him Roman moans, voice thick with sleep.

"Get off me," Virgil grunts, tone softer than the words. Roman's eyes remain welded shut - but his brows knit.

"Mmm, jus'a sec, Ree...sleepin'," the brunette mumbles without a shred of coherency, and Virgil sucks in a guilty breath as he starts to slide out from under the twin with a bit more care than previously. It takes a few careful wiggles, but he does manage to escape without rousing Roman. Not that it's much of a feat - Virgil's pretty sure Roman could sleep through an elephant sitting on his face. The caution is a courtesy. 

When he stands, he sees he’s not the only party guilty of using Roman's wings as a makeshift comforter - Logan is tucked in on the other side, back ramrod straight and head pillowed in his arms. His pale feathers are folded snugly at his sides, cropped so close they almost blend into Roman's own plumage. He frowns a little in his sleep, but otherwise doesn't move, even when Virgil bends down next to him and plucks his glasses off the ground. Better safe than sorry. It's not as though Logan moves around much in his sleep...but Virgil would rather avoid having one of them flying blind.

Speaking of glasses though - with a jolt Virgil realizes Patton's not there.

It takes every ounce of self control Virgil has to not yell out for him then and there, turning on his heels as he looks about the station: outside of Logan and Roman passed out on the thin, ratty blanket Patton had insisted on grabbing from his cell (a gift from Dr. Picani), the place looks just about as empty as they'd found it. The tiled floors are coated in dust, sneaker-shaped bald spots the only indication of disturbance. At least that's a good sign. Virgil's only met one Envoy who could be described as 'delicate'...and well - if he'd been involved, it wouldn't have just been Patton missing. Still, the thought of Patton finding any sort of trouble while he and the others were dozing is enough to raise his blood pressure.

Virgil hesitates to leave Roman and Logan vulnerable tucked between the store shelves, but forces himself to creep out from behind the bare racks and - practically falls through himself. Patton is sitting on the counter, bathed in sunlight pooling in from the broken windows. He hasn't quite noticed Virgil yet, completely not-missing and absorbed by...well, Virgil’s not sure. A lot of little somethings.

"Patton, where'd you get those?" Virgil asks flatly, coming up behind Patton, who lets out an undignified squeak. He drops a deep purple berry onto the counter. Upon further inspection, the blonde's hands are thoroughly stained, pale skin dyed in splotchy mauve. There's some conspicuous stains around the corners of his mouth as well, made all the more distinct by how Patton's round eyes hone in on Virgil from behind equally round frames.

"You scared me!" he scolds, entirely too awake for where the sun is in the sky.

"I scared_ you_?" Virgil's huff ghosts between humored and exasperated. Patton nods resolutely. Then he seems to remember what he was preoccupied to begin with, because he quickly grabs a handful of...well, Virgil's not a plant expert, but they are most definitely berries. They look a little like tiny, cartoonish grapes. Whatever they are, Patton plants them into Virgil's hand.

"I got breakfast!" Patton announces as proudly as he can at a half-volume, "Logan read to me about these, once. I think they're called blackberries...I'm not too sure. He was showing me 'em out of one of his books."

Virgil knows about that - not the berries, but that Logan was always being given long swathes of information to memorize as apart of his testing, usually in the form of thick, dull text. Patton had always liked to be read to, though...and well, if anything was going to knock him out, Virgil figured a textbook was probably one of the better ways to do it. Logan had always suggested that reading aloud was strictly to help him process the information given to him, but Virgil was pretty sure he only insisted it necessary for Patton's sake. 

"Surprised it had pictures," Virgil says, because it's the most positive thing he can think of, and Patton's head bobs.

"I liked it when they had pictures," he nods, popping a berry in his mouth before giving Virgil a conspiratorial look, "I think Logan did too, even if he didn't act like it."

The snort coaxed out of him has Virgil covering his mouth, and he shakes his head a bit before eyeing Patton's offering and warily following suit. Juice explodes unexpectedly in his mouth, and his sucks a surprised breath in through his nose. Patton's beaming at him.

"Isn't it fun! And if you eat 'em with a granola bar, it's real good. I saved enough for you guys," he promises, and Virgil instinctively ruffles his hair.

"Pat, Roman told you not to worry about that. Logan, too."

“Yeah, but - still. Y'know?"

"'Course," Virgil acquiesces, "but just don't feel bad about being hungry, 'kay?" 

"Alrighty!" he trills quickly enough to make Virgil suspicious, but punctuates the agreement by making quick work of another handful of berries.

"Just how many of those things did you pick, anyway?"

"There's a whole slew of 'em out back," Patton remarks excitedly, "Oodles, even! I went hunting for kindling for the next fire, and found two whole berry bushes! So I wanted to, I dunno, get some for you guys."

Virgil winces, unsure whether or not to scold Patton for leaving while on watch and not telling anyone where he was going (even if it was just out back)...or if he should just leave well enough alone for the time being. He might only be a year younger than him, but Pat's always been sort of...soft. Not the kind of gentle Logan can force when work needs to be done, or even Roman's bombastic breed of altruism - Pat's just an authentically good person, plain and simple. It's a brave thing to be, Virgil thinks...but also fabulously dangerous.

"I was careful," Patton promises in the wake of his silence, and Virgil relents.

"_Berry _ careful?" he clarifies, and the blonde practically glows, hair seeming to glimmer gold in the rising sunlight.

"Abso-_fruit_-ly!" he beams, and Virgil makes peace by sticking his tongue out. Patton counters with his own purple-laden tongue.

"Gross, Pat," his lip curls and he stretches - for the first time since his watch - and then turns back toward the makeshift nest Roman and Logan are currently conked out on, "Anyway. We better try to wake up Sleeping Beauty and Sleeps like a Log-an,"

Patton smiles, turning his thumb upside down, "Boooo!"

"You're just jealous."

"Am not!" Patton hops off the counter, but the reprimand in his voice is flimsy and entirely too playful, "'Kay, maybe a little."

It doesn't take long to wake Logan, who groggily sits up when Patton darts over to pick up Roman's wing - which is a sight given Patton is just about as big as one of the guy's giant feathered monstrosities. In fact, Patton has to hold the thing up with both hands, "Rise and shine, sleepyhead!" 

Logan blinks at him blearily. Roman continues to snore.

"Good morning to you as well, Patton. Where are my glasses?" 

"Here," Virgil kneels at Patton's side, handing Logan over the glasses he's cleaned with the rim of his uniform. Yeah, they'll need to ditch the testing gear soon. They look like they just escaped prison. Which, okay, yeah - that adds up, actually.

"Thank you," Logan slips the frames on, and then turn towards Roman, giving his shoulder a rather forceful shove, "Roman."

Which is about as effective as kicking a wall, but Virgil appreciates the effort.

"Nah," he says, sticking his finger in his mouth before pressing it firmly into Roman's ear, "Like this."

About two hours later, Virgil is still nursing his nose, free of regret as he runs his sleeve gingerly against the sore spot. To his right, Patton’s wings are feather-shaped blurs loud enough to sound like a small motor as he darts a bit closer. He makes a hissing sound in between his teeth, distinctly sympathetic as he hovers in front of Virgil’s face. It always kind of freaks Virgil out when Patton decides to fly backward like that. And still out-pace him.

“Ro, ya _ really _socked him,” he calls, a bit disapprovingly, and Roman glances up at them - he tends to maintain the lowest altitude, largely because his wingspan is laughably huge, and no one wants to fight against so much air being pushed down at once. 

“Sorry,” Roman says, not looking like he is even remotely maybe a little bit sorry, and Patton - somewhat petulantly - crosses his arms. Roman shrugs, smile mischievous.

“Not to hinder Roman’s heartfelt apology,” interjects Logan, “but I believe the upcoming city looks to be a good size. Large enough to be missed, small enough to leave quickly.”

And he’s right; the treeline is starting to become sparse, woods giving way to the occasional billboard. The highway they’ve been following - safe enough distance to not be spotted from the road - is starting to siphon off into thin little exists. Splitting roads interlace into a number of towering buildings and _ sums _ of people...well, actually, most of the people Virgil can spot are packed neatly inside of moving cars.

But it’s still a good number of them. Maybe more than Virgil has seen in his whole life. 

“Whoa,” murmurs Patton, and Virgil is envious that he sounds awed rather than terrified. More accurately, he’s a little jealous of _ all _ of them in that respect. Stealing a glance between the three, not a one appears even a little concerned. Patton’s wonderstruck appreciation coats his tone, and Roman’s foolhardy excitement decorates his grin; even Logan’s level-headed rationality robs him the doubt he expressed the day before. He’s definitely not happy about the situation, says the tightness in his eyes, but he’s calm.

Virgil, on the other hand, feels his heart trying to escape his chest.

“We can land there?” offers Patton, and Virgil follows the finger the blonde is pointing: it looks like it might be a park. From above, it’s mostly little groups of trees and fields outlined with a dark pathway concrete. It looks pretty empty as well, meaning that landing in the thin clearing won’t be as noticeable as, say, taking a nosedive into the nearest intersection. 

That being said, Virgil’s heart sinks when Logan hums approvingly. 

“It’s acceptable.”

“Last one down is a White Coat!” Roman taunts, folding his wings in.

Virgil dips after Logan - and Patton’s delighted buzzing fills the air as he blows past the two, out-pacing Roman without much effort; as charming as it is, Virgil can’t help but see the innocent action as a reminder that they were all _ designed _ . A reminder that someone, somewhere held a small, infant Patton in their arms and saw a _ subject._ Looked into his clear-sky eyes, his sunny-day smile and thought to themselves ‘what a useful carrier pigeon’.

It makes him want to snatch the smallest of them then and there. Grab Logan by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Maybe return the favor to Roman’s nose before chiding him into safety. He wants to steal them all away and make sure no one ever looks at his Flock and sees tools in place of people.

Instead, he lands shortly after Logan, watching Roman tuck his wings snugly to his sides, somehow hiding lengthy footage under his clothes. Speaking of which…

“So, how do we explain our threads?” Virgil asks, gesturing to their very conspicuous wardrobe. 

Logan pauses, looking so very suddenly surprised.

“Oh,” he says after a moment.

Normally, Virgil loves the rare occasions in which Logan is caught off-guard. He’s so darned meticulous that stumping him is almost an achievement. Now, though, it makes Virgil rethink his hesitance in hiding them all away in a safe and throwing away the key.

“Easy.” Roman’s voice upends Virgil’s train of thought. It doesn't even change tracks, just falls sideways off the rails. 

“_Easy,” _ he repeats, making sure that he and Roman are, in fact, both clear on the definition of the word. 

“Yeah,” Roman says breezily, “I’ve watched, like, a ton of movies. I know all about _ subterfuge,” _he wiggles his fingers.

“Movies?” Virgil echoes, now certain that Roman’s forgone English. Logan once told him that Shakespeare - some old playwright - used to just make up words from time to time. He’d always wondered what it would be like to be in the audience when an actor, out of nowhere, pulled out a word like _ swagger _ from his back pocket without explanation. He thinks talking to Roman is a lot like that sometimes. 

“Yeah,” Roman’s nodding, eyes glittering with anticipation, “if anyone asks, we’ll say we’re in a play! We’re old enough to be in school,” he says more confidently than someone who has_ actually_ been in a play - or even in _school_.

“We can say we’re jailbirds!” Patton chuckles, and Virgil is waiting for Logan to put a stop to this nonsense.

“That should suffice.”

Virgil wonders if Patton was wrong about the berries. Maybe they were poisonous. Perhaps he’s having an allergic reaction. 

“We’ll make new clothes the priority, however; we stand out a bit too much as it is now.” Logan continues, glancing down at the test garb he’s wearing: white polyester pants and a short sleeve top, identical to what the rest of them are wearing. Though, to be fair, Logan’s are a bit whiter that everyone else’s. Patton’s got dirt and purple finger-shaped splotches on the sides of his pants, and Roman’s got rusty red on the back where Remus - well. It’s not Roman’s blood, Virgil thinks with bittersweet remorse. 

Unaware of Virgil’s soured musings, Roman is over the moon.

“Specs, have you ever had a single bad idea in your life?” 

“No,” Logan responds seriously, and Patton hides a giggle behind his hand as he tucks his wings into his prison scrubs.

Virgil reluctantly follows suit, pressing his leathery wings tight along his spine. He feels like it’s noticeable, even though he knows they were built to be nearly seamless when folded. Even Roman’s colossal wingspan is practically invisible - though Virgil’s heard Roman complain about it before, once. It’s not that Roman’s not a complainer, Virgil’s noticed: he’ll gripe about nearly anything insignificant, like crust on a sandwich or a stubbed toe. Bigger stuff, however? Like the fact that maybe nearly twenty feet of feathers wasn’t really meant to fold up comfortably? He’s only slipped up once. As much as Virgil respects it, it worries him sometimes, how much Roman can hide behind a too-bright smile. He hopes it’s not like his wings, foot after foot of imperceptible secrets.

Virgil jerks a bit when he feels someone's hand tap gently against his back.

“Virgil?” Logan asks in the way someone sounds when you’ve ignored them the first time, but a little more gently than that, “Are you ready?”

Virgil shakes himself internally before he manages to mimic the motion physically, “If I say ‘no’, are we gonna not go?”

After a beat, Logan responds with soft resolution, “I can send Patton and Roman to pick out clothes for the both of us, if you’d like.”

The thought of the two of them going off alone and not coming back takes over Virgil’s mouth and he snaps “No!” before running a hand through his hair with a forced laugh, “After this morning? Knowing Roman, he’d dress me in pastels as payback.”

Logan nods in understanding, his lip even quirking a little despite his eyes saying that he’s seen through Virgil’s dodge - and appreciates it, “Certainly. However, pink _ would _ be rather fetching on you,” he teases dryly, smirking.

Virgil tosses a light punch into Logan’s shoulder, but his smile - though small - is at least genuine as he follows Logan to catch up with Roman and Patton. 

**~:~**

“You look like a goth,” Roman groans.

In Roman’s defense, Virgil sort of does. His jeans are black and riddled with ‘fashionable’ rips at the knees. In fact, the patchwork hoodie he’s wearing is the only source of color - and even then, that color is a dark purple and marred with black plaid.

“I think he looks cool!”

Roman rolls his eyes, “Says the guy in a kitten sweater.”

Patton’s wearing the kind of pullover one can only find at a secondhand store, a gray kitten stitched onto the front of a baby blue sweater. It says ‘Feline Good’ in a font that looks how a shit-eating grin sounds.

“Me-owch,” Patton chirps happily, not even a little bothered. If anything, he looks a little more pleased with his purchase.

“It’s purrfect, Pat,” Virgil responds, grin defiant as he locks eyes with Roman.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to agree with Roman,” says Logan, and Virgil feels a little bad for hating Logan’s chosen outfit...it reminds him a bit too viscerally of the lab, especially when Logan moves to straighten the tie around the collar of his dress shirt...at least he’s wearing denim instead of dress pants or khakis, “This feels like an excuse to make an excessive amount of cat puns.”

“_Paw_-sibly,” Patton admits, and Logan fixes him with a look flatter than the one cashier had leveled at Roman when he told her he was the lead in his school’s play - which might have been fine if he hadn’t called her ‘fair maiden’ at the end of it.

Virgil was pretty impressed with the way she made _“Have a nice day”_ sound like _“Never talk to me again”_.

“At least we’re not dressed like Disney characters,” Virgil responds pointedly, and Roman scoffs. It does seem like he modeled his look off a live-action Disney show, though. From the worn jeans to the red letterman jacket, Roman’s looks as though he might have walked out of a commercial playing in Picani’s office. However, Virgil suspects it’s more than just a preference of style. The jacket is kinda bulky, and the white shirt is fairly loose. There’s probably a bit more wiggle room for Roman wings - and he’s actually able to hide the slits in the back of his shirt. At least, that’s why Virgil’s got a jacket on.

All and all, he has to admit that he feels better in these clothes. They look...almost normal. And while Virgil’s baseline for ‘normal’ is probably missing the mark in several areas, no one even spares them a second glance as they walk down the aisle.

Which, he notes, is a bit surreal. Not just the ‘blending in’ thing, which is weird and wrong and great all at the same time; but also the store itself. He’s never been around this much of anything: people or food. He didn’t even know how many types of food there _ were _, but he feels kind of floaty when they go into the soup aisle and there’s hundreds of cans with what feels like numerous flavors. It’s the same for chips and cheese. 

Logan’s got a strict policy that keeps them from loading the cart with everything they can get their hands on. Nothing inessential, and it has to be able to last a long time. He’s trying to make the money last, and Virgil understands that...but he’s glad that Logan finds it permissible to allow each of them one ‘frivolous’ expense so long as it’s under a couple dollars. Mostly because the look on Patton’s face when he’d realized exactly how much candy five bucks can buy had made even Logan chuckle a bit.

“We’ll need a source of protein. This dehydrated meat should suffice,” Logan murmurs, holding a bag of jerky as he reads the label, a finger hooked contemplatively around his chin, “Roman, how much room is left in your pack?”

Virgil waits a few moments as he leans down to inspect the different flavors, expecting Roman to respond with something snarky like ‘enough’. He frowns a little when Roman doesn’t, and looks up to find Roman’s not looking in his bag. 

He’s not even looking at Logan. 

His mouth is slightly open and his green eyes are blown wide; the shocked expression is so un-_Roman_-like that it takes Virgil a second to even register it. On instinct he follows Roman’s line of sight, head snapping to where Roman's gaze is fixed.

“_S__hit _,” Virgil startles, jerking to his feet.

Coming down the far side of the aisle is Remus. His grin and eyes are that of a predator, thinks Virgil, like an _Envoy._


	3. How They Transform The Useless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title is a line from Deborah Digge’s poem “Darwin’s Finches”

“Roman” says someone next to him, a million miles away. He feels their knuckles through his jacket as they tug on him again (again?), “Roman, snap out of it!”

The tone reminds him of a fraying rope - like something is coming undone inside of them. Roman should say something encouraging, he realizes distantly...but he’s coming apart too, he’s pretty sure. The stray threads of his soul - from the inside out, he’s unfurling, he’s unraveling, he’s -

He’s a failure.

The truth is impersonal, no more targeted than a rainy day - but there it is. The evidence saunters toward him with a grin that’s a pinch too wide and eyes that are...he _knows_ those eyes. Loves them, in fact. He’s seen them aglow with mischief, bright with adventure; he knows exactly what they looked like when they beg someone not to go, _not to leave his brother, he’s your brother--! _

He’s watched the light drain from them. 

And he sees them now. 

_‘Don’t turn away again,’_ says the feral grin stretched across his twin’s expression like a tight film, _‘Look at what you’ve lost’_

And Roman obeys. He owes Remus that much. More. But all he has to offer is himself, his attention - his regret.

He stands and watches, stiff as his mind issues orders he does not follow. He should kick the cart he’s leaning on forward, turn tail with the others the moment is collides with Remus’ chest. If he doesn’t do that, he should be able to clear the cart; he can pin Remus to the ground, probably - introduce his head to the floor a few times as a homemade sedative. There’s probably a better plan - several - he could think up if only the ringing in his ears would stop. As it is, Roman’s thoughts can hardly find any purchase at all. He’s just staring, sinking and tumbling, drowning in Remus’ over-bright gaze.

“Roman,” Logan is saying, calm, quiet, and forceful, “We have to go.”

It’s a good idea, he thinks, but he’s also not convinced he can move. Especially not when Remus throws himself languidly over the opposite end of the cart Roman is still propped against. He thinks he should do something, or maybe someone says that to him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Remus coos, stretching a long limb out to bop Roman on the nose, “Love your new look, by the way!” he snatches his hand back, a dark grin on his face as he practically sing-snarls, “Like mine?”

Remus oozes forward, pulling down the high collar of his uniform. Roman’s breath catches on the barcode at the base of his brother’s throat. He feels dizzy. Or nauseous. He feels -

Virgil slap him.

“Roman! Wake _up_!” Virgil demands with a hiss, commanding in Roman’s ear. The effect is immediate. Roman’s tunneling vision fractures, darkened walls crumbling into shelves lined with junk-food, and the swiveling tiles beneath him stop spinning so abruptly that they almost takes Roman with it. Virgil does instead, rearing back to slap him again, when Roman catches the hand and gives him a pointed look.

Or rather, tries to. The moment Virgil sees his eyes focus, Virgil yanks him backward - Logan and Patton are nowhere to be seen...in fact, he realizes as he’s pulled further away from Remus, the store looks so suddenly empty - and oh, Roman finally places the earsplitting buzz that’s been blaring in his mind. 

“Fire alarm?” he asks at the same time he looks back to see Remus’ face darken, and with strength that’s inhuman, he tosses the cart to the side. Actually tosses it. Picks it up, like a toy car, and takes out the shelf to his right.

“Birdgil, Birdgil, Birdgil,” Remus tuts as his back explodes into familiar, dark wings - thick and so brown they look black - but there’s something wrong about them, something Roman can’t quite place, what’s wrong with his -

“We _were bonding._”

Roman knows a lot about wings. He’s sort of an expert at this point, really. Granted, Logan probably knows more about the technical aspects - but while Roman doesn’t have a very firm grasp on the why’s of everything, he knows the results. Enough, anyway, to know that Remus’ lofty vulture feathers are a lot like his own: he needs time to get in the air. He needs to run, get some traction. It’s why - it’s how they got him. 

But Remus doesn’t run, he just takes off. He’s standing, and then all of a sudden rocketing toward Roman, blindingly fast. Not as quick as Patton, but far swifter than he should be. Faster than Virgil expects.

Both boys hit the ground when Remus tackles them, so hard and immediate that Roman would have rolled past Virgil had Remus not landed by digging his feet into Roman's shoulder blades - sharp and merciless atop his wings. Virgil tries to get up, but Remus hums disapprovingly before sending his foot straight into Virgil’s temple. Virgil’s eyes roll back and he goes limp. Remus kicks him again, for good measure.

_“Virgil!_" Roman chokes on the air escaping his lungs as Remus wrenches him skyward with unnatural and unforgiving force. He stops right before they hit the ceiling. Roman kicks uselessly, trying to unfold his wings. 

“Ah-ah-ah,” Remus hugs him so tight Roman wheezes, for a moment thinking one of his wings might snap then and there, “See, we’re _learning_ Roman. I mean, how easy is this? To pick someone up? And fly at the same time?” Remus prompts playfully. Remus may as well have dropped him from how Roman’s stomach plummets.

“Ree, Ree - please, I tried, I promise, you saw me tr-ah!”

“Shh, shh, Roman - Roman. I’m _talking_,” he admonishes pleasantly. He squeezes again, tighter, and Roman winces.

“Yeah, wish I didn’t have to keep doing that. They made me real strong, y’know? ‘Fraid if you keep wriggling I might accidentally just snap you right in ‘twain. That means ‘in half’, didja know?” Remus laughs, and Roman swallows thickly.

However they’ve destroyed Remus, Roman almost wishes they would have done it completely. It hurts almost worse, this incomplete, satirized version of his brother. If it was just a husk, just an Envoy in Remus’ skin, Roman thinks traitorously...if it just wasn’t so completely Remus, maybe it would be easier.

“Remus, please-”

_“Roman please,”_ he repeats - but in the same way he did before, in the same voice he used to beg - and even Remus looks crushed, genuinely _hurt_, for a moment before his face twists into disgust and mocking. He rolls his eyes, “Look, Lyle and I didn’t follow your tracker all the way down here to hear you beg,” he says seriously before giggling a little, “Okay, maybe_ I_ did.”

Roman stops his struggle for a moment. First, because that means Deceit is here and - wait. His what? Their - his what?

Remus catches the look and his eyes grow wide in genuine surprise...but are perhaps not entirely apologetic, “Whoopsie! I think that was one of the things I was supposed to keep hush-hush!” he snickers.

Trackers. Of course - they’ve got...they’ve been tagged! It’s so obvious that Roman would kick himself if he actually could.

“Dee’s gonna be so upset,” Remus bemoans in the same way a possum dies, and Roman thinks, for just a moment, he sees some of his brother shining through the Envoy.

“Ree,” he murmurs in disbelief, “Did you…?” Did he help him? How accidental was the mistake?

Remus shrugs, “There’s no reason for what I do,” he remarks, voice suddenly cold as he adds, “_I just do._”

And then Roman drops. Actually this time - as in, hurtling toward the ground, no time to slip his wings out.

His heart stops for just a beat, hands wrapping protectively around his head on instinct before he gets control of himself. He has just enough time to wrestle his jacket off, trying to force his wings through his shirt before he's sure he'll hit the laminate; Logan greets him before the floor does...but he's just about as friendly. That is to say, Logan ends up plowing him into a spare clothing rack adjacent to the food aisle they'd been pursuing only a few minutes prior. A clearance coat cushions Roman's fall - Logan's next him, buried under a dozen more. 

Everything hurts, Roman thinks to himself, but not as much as it could have.

"Th-Thanks, Specs," he mumbles, trying to sit up despite the protest in his spine.

Logan makes an unbecoming 'oof' noise, trying to untangle himself from the pile of jackets and windbreakers, "Up!" he's calling already, "Get up" 

Logan’s on his feet without so much as a pause; he pulls the last of the fleece debris from his person, snagging Roman by his wrist - and Roman almost doesn't quite recognize Logan with actual worry on his face. Logan is the pinnacle of control. He doesn't ever look as he does now, eyes wide and upper lip forced stiff. His voice wavers, something Roman's never heard it do; it has him on his feet before Logan does, his nerves coiling. 

"Where's-" Roman asks, looking around for Patton, but doesn't finish. 

A security camera narrowly flies just past Logan, snatching the taller boy's attention along with Roman's when it breaks sharply against the downed rack . Remus is hovering above them, thin shirts scattering from the displays around them as his wings pump powerfully to keep him in place, "Logan, this is a family affair. I thought you were the polite one!" 

"When it's prudent," Logan offers, lip quirking. He releases Roman, but keeps his eyes locked on him from the peripheral, and Roman means to blurt something out about the trackers - but everything stops at the sound of Patton screaming. 

He's screeching, the sound raked over thinning vocal cords - it sounds like the shout might only make it out because it's slick with tears. Logan loses his focus and his color all at once, head snapping in the direction of the bawling, shaking, stammering sound of Patton trying to not cry in between pained yelping. It's the kind of sound felt rather than heard. And god, does it feel.

At the same moment, Remus lunges for Logan, burying his hands on either side of Logan's shoulders as he grins, lips curling at the ends with a crazed, frenzied sneer - like a shark that smells blood in the water. Roman feels his body lurch, hesitating and swaying as if unsure on whether or not to fly for Patton or to hurl himself at Remus. Logan makes the decision for him, gaze so sharp it pins his feet to the ground.

"Get Patton!" he orders, and there's no room to question the directive - Roman's already turning by the time the words have left Logan's mouth, running to take off. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Remus turn as if to chase him, but Logan - cool, calm, collected Logan - growls and grabs Remus by the collar to hold him in place. He might even wrestle him to the ground, but Roman sucks in a breath, moving back toward the aisles, where the scream originated.

He passes Virgil, who's still oddly still on the ground - but it looks like he's breathing, chest rising in thin staccato as Roman moves past him. Patton screams again, ice forming in Roman's veins as he runs past aisle after empty aisle -

"Patton!" desperation laces the words, "_Pat!_ Where are you?" his voice cracks - green eyes wild as ivy until the name is lodged in his throat. His heart beats in time with the footsteps thundering beneath him, and he feels like he could run forever if only it meant that Patton would be at the end of it - if it meant he’d never scream like that again.

The only saving grace - the one that makes Roman sick to be grateful for - is that he can hear it grow closer as he nears it, the shriek technicolor-vivid as he turns into the only aisle left; and the rug is pulled from beneath his feet.

Patton’s there - he is - but he’s not screaming. There’s a hand clamped so tightly around the blonde’s mouth the puffs of his cheek rise in between gloved fingers - judging from the tears pulling at the corner of Patton’s big blue eyes, it hurts. Deceit holds him tight, closing the mouth that’s been stretched into a yell. He’s a heavy contrast to Patton.

Where Patton is short, Lyle is tall and gangly, his face long; Lyle is the kind of guy who smiles with his whole face, and none of it is kind. His grin is monstrous, for sure - snake scales folding unpleasantly all the way down to his smirking, uneven mouth...but the real show-stopper is the gold, predatory eyes. They belong to a snake, which is very literal - but even what fuels them is oily and smug. It’s rotten, and Deceit wears the worst of himself so proudly that Roman wonders if Lyle was meant to ever be anything but a dog made to heel the Lab’s feet.

Patton tries to yell from behind Lyle's hand, and he rolls yellow chromatic eyes at Roman dramatically, as if they’re both in on some secret. It makes Roman bare his teeth at the Envoy, blood burning.

Deceit catches the look, and snorts, “Well at least no one’s being dramatic,” he comments, finally using his own voice, tone slippery until Roman breathes in deep, drawing himself to his full height as he readies himself to charge and rip Patton from his- 

“Ah! Don’t be foolish, Roman,” Deceit hisses sharply, knowingly, and Roman stops cold. His fists clench and unclench, eyes locked on the second hand that’s wrapped around Patton’s throat.

Deceit’s a twig, but the Lab has added more to his DNA than the Mockingbird he uses to mimic voices with uncanny accuracy; his grip is constricting, even more indicative of the python in his blood than the scales spattered across his face.

Deceit’s smile is sly, superior - and even though Roman’s stopped moving, he gives Patton’s throat a squeeze, causing the younger boy to let out an unintentional whimper.

“Roman, Remus tells me you like fun facts,” he grins, and Roman thinks he could probably end Lyle’s life with his own bare hands and never feel anything other than satisfaction, “Here’s one you might find intriguing: most constrictors know to stop suffocating their prey because they can feel the heartbeat start to fade. Before then,” he adds as Patton squirms on instinct, “they have the natural urge to squeeze anything that still has a pulse - even those raised in captivity. And what’s more fascinating is that I experience that _urge_ first-hand,” his grin is dazzling, triumphant, and even a little entertained as he forces Roman to make eye-contact with him.

“Don’t offer me a reason to give into that primal instinct, Roman. Neither of us want that - it’s so embarrassing for me...and so deadly for Patton.”

“You could always let him go and solve the problem yourself.”

“Mm, that’s _one_ option. Tell me what you think of this proposition: you carry Virgil back to Mr. Picani while Remus totes Logan - and I promise not to drop Patton here along the way.”

Roman glares at him as Patton’s eyes grow round and he writhes in Lyle’s hold. Deceit doesn’t flinch, his smile never wavers - but clicks his tongue when Roman doesn’t offer a response.

“You know, I think you’re a little drunk on this whole ‘freedom’ charade, Roman. You’ve got so big in your britches because you slept in a gas station, in the dirt, all by yourself and ate food from a dumpster - and called it liberty!” Deceit chuckles, shaking his head slowly, bemused, “Tell me Roman, what was Logan’s big plan? To tuck you all away somewhere, a mountain? A valley? What then?” he removed his hand from Patton’s throat, moving it to smooth down some of his hair, “Survive on scraps and trash? What polysyllabic word did he dress it up with? Sovereignty? Liberation? Heavens, ‘emancipation’?” Deceit laughs.

“And what does Picani say_ you_ have?” Roman bites out, and Lyle stills, cocking his head, for the first time his smile dropping. He continues to run a careful hand through Patton’s hair.

“He says I have a job. A duty. You like plays, Roman - he gives me a role, and I play it,” he responds, before looking down softly at Patton, “We _all_ have one, you know. Some of us have just...lost the script, as it were.” he glances up at Roman, “But trust me, we’re all born actors.”

“Don’t touch him like that,” Roman snaps, practically fuming when he sees Patton unable to flinch away from the unwanted touch, and Deceit sighs heavily his shoulders slump.

“Y’know, for such a fan of fine arts, you really do miss the _Big Picture,_” Lyle huffs, dropping the hand from Patton’s head. Roman almost feels relief up until he realizes Deceit’s hand returns from his pocket with a needle.

“Wait!” he cries as Deceit plunges it into Patton’s neck.

Deceit’s black wings spread, the white pattern near the tips staring Roman down like big, snobbish eyes; but Lyle’s not like Roman. He doesn’t need to have a running start to fly - and even though he’s not the strongest guy out there, Patton’s light - and going pliant.

He eyes, previously afraid, are losing focus. His rigid body is unwillingly relaxing even as Deceit springs into the air, and he doesn’t even flinch when Roman calls out to him. His head just lolls into the crook of the Envoy’s arm, who’s holds a taunting finger to his lips.

“Hush, Roman - you’ll wake him,” Deceit chides sarcastically, and turning his head to where Logan and Remus must be fighting, because his expression sours.

Roman knows why seconds later, because Logan’s hand lands on his shoulder and - well, Logan’s on his feet, at least. He looks worse for wear, though, and Roman doesn’t have time to catalogue the blooming garden of bruises planted along his jaw and nose and eyes, but he does notice that Remus doesn’t come thundering behind him. Where-?

“I can’t lift Virgil,” he admits breathlessly, pushing Roman in Virgil’s direction, “Get him, I’ll get Patton - just get Virgil,” Logan commands, and then makes sure that Roman’s listening “Get him, get out. Don’t stop if you don’t see us.”

“Specs-” Roman feels his throat tightening, and Logan’s hand tightens almost painfully around his shoulder.

“Roman: _you do not stop_.”

And Roman doesn’t. He takes off, as much as he hates himself for it. He moves back toward Virgil, rushing back toward the aisle where Virgil is still crumpled on the ground. As he bends down to collect the hybrid, his chest tightens; Virgil’s glazed eyes open blearily, only to weakly push at his chest before falling into it with all the strength of a kitten.

“Le’mme’go,” he says all in one slurred breath before his eyes flutter slightly and he seems to finally be able to understand Roman for what he is, “Roman? Ro, m’head hurts,” he mumbles, and then loses the tenuous hold he’s had on consciousness, however loose it was.

Logan’s right. Virgil can’t fly like this, Roman thinks as he cuddles Virgil tighter in his arms.

“I’ve gotcha,” Roman promises, and then his eyes land on Remus, who’s staring at him. Watching him hold Virgil close from under the shelving Logan must have set to collapse around him. He’s absolutely seething, green eyes awash with hatred.

There’s an unspoken jealousy there, a vibrant betrayal. 

“Ree,” he mouths, maybe says, “I’m sorry,” and then he’s gone. 

He doesn’t stop to see if Logan is following him as he darts for the exit, finally taking off into the air once he has enough momentum to let the air take him. The doors are propped open thanks to the alarm still wailing, and the fresh air hit him like a ton of very welcome bricks - soft and cool enough that Virgil stirs a little in his hold, digging his face into Roman’s new shirt.

From behind him, he sees Logan’s form flee the building, and god - the relief might have floored him if the need to escape wasn’t demanding he move.

He doesn’t notice that Logan is empty handed.

**~.~**

It’s raining. Roman’s watched enough movies to know that it’s not an accident. This is the universe telling him that he’s made a mistake, that he’s to blame. This is the universe agreeing with Virgil, who’s awake now.

Awake, and angry. 

“We should have never gone to the city!” Virgil has his back pressed up against the cold mouth of the cave, hands buried in the palms of his hands, “Logan! Fuck! You shouldn’t have ever left without Patton! You shouldn’t have-! This is your fault!” he rasps, voice worn and ragged with injury and grief. 

Logan, for his part, says nothing. He’s not facing Virgil or Roman, and is instead organizing. He doesn’t look up from the bags he’s packing with the supplies they managed to collect - but Roman catches the way Logan’s shoulders hunch, and a pang of sympathy rolls throw him as the sound of thunder and rain fill the silence.

The silence seems to agitate Virgil, who’s livid, “And what! I know they fucked your emotions up, Lo, but you could at least _pretend_ to care about Patton! You could at least _fucking_ look at me!”

Virgil can’t see it, but Roman can: the way Logan bites at his lower lip, and - shit, is that a tear? Can Logan even cry anymore?

“Hey now,” Roman hushes, his tone bordering on warning even though he’s trying to come across as soothing.

He must do a spectacularly poor job, because Virgil apparently remembers Logan isn’t the only one on his shit list, and he turns on Roman, hands balled and turning white at the knuckles.

“And you! You fucking froze, Roman!” Virgil’s on his feet, shoving his finger into Roman’s chest even though Roman’s got almost four inches on him, “You saw Remus, and what? Thought you’d go for round two? Decided you maybe hadn’t lost enough people?”

It’s so unexpected that Roman he thinks for a moment Virgil might have punched him in the gut - but no. That’s just the air leaving his body, leaking from his lungs, “I-I-”

“Fucked up! You-”

“Virgil,” Logan says suddenly, standing behind him, and his hand falls heavy Virgil’s shoulder, “you’re upset, injured, and you are saying things that you don’t mean. I think it may be wise if you retire for tonight and say what you believe wise when you’re rested.”

“Shove it, L,” Virgil responds, voice breaking. Roman’s never actually seen Virgil cry before. He’s seen his eyes water, but what happens as soon as Logan pulls him into a hug is...his shoulders shake, and he buries his head into Logan’s torso. The sounds he makes are muffled, but even still Roman never wants to hear them again. It’s ugly.

It’s all his fault.

“Roman,” Logan looks up, “Would you like to-”

“I have first watch,” Roman says, swallowing, “Need some time to uh..think, I guess, L.” he swallows, and Logan nods.

**~.~**

Morning sun spills onto Roman’s pack, and Logan reads the letter in his hands again; Roman’s writing is neat but hastily scrawled across the stray notebook paper.

_ Guys, _

_ I’ll be back with Patton. Promise. We’ll find you. Don’t worry. _


	4. We Saw the Risk We Took in Doing Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a line from “The Exposed Nest” by Robert Frost.

The toughest part of being the only one to get caught is knowing that anyone else would have done a better job of it, Patton thinks. Handled, it better, at the very least. He sniffs, tucking himself into the corner of the cell. He knows that Roman would be pounding at the door - brave and valiant, battering against the hinges. He’d do so until someone would be forced to restrain or dose him...because Roman would get out if left to his own devices.

Logan, too, Patton knows, squeezing his eyes tight to stop the tears that Lyle has informed him are ‘pathetic’; if the oldest of the Flock had been in Patton’s shoes, Patton’s pretty sure he would know how to get out - either because he picked the lock, or memorized the guard schedule, or figured out how the security cameras worked, or - or Patton doesn’t even /know/, because even though Logan has said Patton was smart, he’s pretty sure it was out of guilt. Or pity. He’s not strong like Roman, or clever like Logan.

Even Virgil, who’s always the first in line to belittle himself, has more to offer than Patton. Virgil is sly and resourceful. He knows how to slip out of situations - he understands how people think, or is at least wary enough of intention to have a way around them. He’s so observant, so keen, that Patton thinks that maybe the only reason he can’t think of how Virgil would get out of a cage is because Virgil wouldn’t be caught in the first place.

Patton knows that if any of them were where he was, they wouldn’t have to tell themselves not to cry.

He’s still hiding his head in the folds of his arms, knees tucked carefully under his chin, when the door opens. He feels his face heat up, and a pang compress his throat - he doesn’t want to talk to Lyle, and he surely doesn’t want to talk to Remus. Lyle is always saying hurtful things with a kind voice - not always his own - and Remus...it’s hard, so difficult, to look into the eyes of someone so close and not see them staring back at you.

“Oh, Patton-cake,” says neither Lyle or Remus, and Patton sucks in a breath that’s a shade too hopeful. He jerks his head up, eyes landing solidly on Mr. Picani. His tone is heavy, words weighted with a strange blend of relief and sadness. He even looks a little tired, running a hand through blonde hair that’s aged at the ends and looking at Patton with eyes that are kind but haunted.

Dr. Picani is deceptively tall in the same way skyscrapers are. Unlike Logan and Lyle, his limbs aren’t lanky, and he’s not overtly broad like Roman. He looks like a regular man, like skyscrapers look like regular buildings up until you reach the base and look up. 

“Mr. Picani!” Patton pushes himself to his feet, suddenly so very glad that they haven’t dressed him in the white scrubs yet - he wants Mr. Picani to know that they can do it, that the secret longing the man tells them about the world with was not misplaced. He wants Mr. Picani to understand that once he helps Patton get out, he won’t have to worry about him anymore; it might seem silly to put so much weight on a frosty blue sweater with a cat on it, but...Mr. Picani will get it. He’ll see that he was right to want more for them.

He can’t help himself - Patton launches forward, grabbing the man around the waist and planting his face into his gut, “I’m so glad it was you!” Patton admits, relieved - because nothing ever works out for them like this. The world is never so kind, never so forgiving.

The fact that it’s being so now is enough to make up for how useless he had been feeling only moments before.

Mr. Picani’s jerks a bit, but then softens. It’s not long before he’s running a gentle hand over Patton’s back in the same soothing way he always did after the other White Coats were especially hard on him. On days where they would run him so ragged that he’d still feel like his head was flying even when his feet were on the ground. Sometimes, when that would happen, Picani would take him to his office, and put on a movie or a cartoon. He’d even let Patton have a sucker, or something else small and packed with sugar.

“How are you feeling, Patton?” Mr. Picani asks after uncountable seconds, pulling Patton a bit away from the wooly fabric of his cardigan. It’s so he can get a look at Patton’s face. Patton should probably be embarrassed that his eyes are rimmed in pink, but instead shrugs a little.

“Um, Deceit kinda - he-” Patton shuffles, and a hand that’s no longer hugging Picani hovers over his neck. He doesn’t quite touch the tender areas, but he can almost feel the slick fabric of Lyle’s gloves pressing against the hard knob in his throat.

“Was he rough with you?” Picani asks gently, and Patton shrugs, before he tries to keep the corners of his lips from shaking. He always smiles wobbly when he’s upset, and he hates it. Still, the answer to the question is not what he responds with.

“Mr. Picani, what they did to Ree - they...You shoulda seen Roman at the store, sir, he just - they_ really_ did a number on him, on Remus - they hurt him _real_ bad.” 

Dr. Picani’s lips thin and his chin dips, slow and understanding. It shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. It’s validation. It’s nice for Patton to tell someone that something is wrong and have them nod and affirm that yes, it is wrong. His Flock will do that too...but when they do it, it’s resignation. Picani, though, always looks like he’s about to do something about it.

“I’m glad you seem okay for the most part, physically. When I heard that Lyle and Remus had returned with one of you, I was so worried for you four.”

Patton’s head bobs - and smiles faintly, finally managing to swallow past the burning lump in his throat, “Logan stole your wallet. He got us all clothes,” he pulls weakly at his shirt, pulling the cat long, “I promise you don't have’ta worry about us - them,” Patton corrects with a tender, regretful grin, “They’re gonna take real good care of themselves, and I-”

Patton locks eyes with Mr. Picani, who’s still smiling so softly to himself about either Logan taking his wallet, or maybe Patton’s shirt. Whatever it is, Patton feels something warm in his chest, something trusting, “and when I get out, Mr. Picani,” he continues with a promise in his words, “you won’t have to worry about me either.”

Logan told them the last time they escaped to never breathe a word about it. To keep it secret. Patton had hated not being able to say good-bye. Now, though - this time, he can. Patton knows he shouldn’t tell too many people, not likely a soul more...but he wants Mr. Picani to understand. 

Dr. Picani sighs, looking sad. His tongue clicks, and Patton feels guilty.

“I want you to know I’m gonna be okay when I leave, sir.”

“Patton,” Dr. Picani looks down at him, bringing a surprisingly thin hand to rest on Patton’s shoulder as he drops to his knee, “I hope you know that I’m on your side.”

“I know, sir! I _know_, that’s why I tol-” Patton chokes off. Picani leans in for a hug, which wouldn’t have startled him so bad if he hadn’t felt a familiar sting in his neck. The liquid is just as cold as when Lyle stuck him at the store - and it’s working just as fast.

“I hope you know I’m sorry, Kiddo. I’ll see if you feel up to ice cream after your barcode.”

Patton wants to jolt, to buck - but his limbs don’t move the way he tells them to, and the blaze buzzing in the back of his mind is just bees on fire. That’s what they sound like, at least. His thoughts. His mind suddenly feels like quicksilver in a clogged drain, reeling dizzyingly fast but with nowhere to go. Some molasses-coated concepts break through the fog, though, as Picani accepts Patton’s weight.

Mr. Picani’s hurt him, just now. He’s never, _ever_ hurt Patton. Until now. Patton told him he’d run away, and Mister - _Doctor_ Picani’s voice is echoing around the word _barcode_. Only Envoy’s have those.

_ No. _

He tries to thrash, but his back barely arches, his hands hardly flex. Dr. Picani holds him. Patton wishes he would stop.

“I’m sorry, Patton-cake,” Picani says while the lights go bright and unnatural in Patton’s eyes, “You’ll be just fine.”

Patton feels like he’s swallowed all the cotton swabs in the Lab, and the words he wants to string together keep slipping off the tip of his tongue, tripping as he pictures what it will look like when his Flock sees him next to Remus. He hopes he doesn’t smile so wide at them, hopes he doesn’t scare them with manic, fever-lit eyes that are only mostly his own.

But he’s terrified he will.

And that fear puts together words that Patton doesn’t think he’s ever said before. Doesn’t think he’s even ever thought before. But they’re true. And Dr. Picani deserves to know. He’s glad he’s fallen forward so close to Picani’s ear.

“Hate you,” Patton whispers sloppily, and he sounds just as surprised to say it as he had been to think it, despite how thick and globby the words come out.

Picani flinches, but hugs him tighter. It feels like an apology.

Patton doesn’t think he forgives him. And then, he doesn’t think anything at all.

**~.~**

Logan doesn’t remember the last clear emotion he ever felt; but whatever it was, whatever strange amalgamation of loss and fear he’d been able to process...it is uncomfortably familiar, like stubbing a toe in the same place for the second time. Only it’s worse, because physical wounds heal, all of them, with time. 

He becomes aware of the fact that this feeling is still fresh and raw years later, amplified even. Even more troubling is how the emotion coats everything a shade darker, exacerbating symptoms of their predicament; namely, how pointedly absent Roman’s outrageous snoring is, along with the verbal daydreaming Patton likes to take part in. It makes his hands strangely heavy as he embraces the morning packing routine he’d been trying to implement; and whatever strange ache is gnawing at the edges of his chest ruefully blooms as he moves to tuck away some of Patton’s brightly colored candies into the folds of Roman’s pack.

The feeling is crude, ramshackle - but relentless. He can’t name it.

Admittedly, it’s not a surprising discovery: after all, Logan has never been a terribly emotive individual. To be completely fair, though, it wasn’t as if his environment actively encouraged emotional displays. 

He had an inkling that the scientists that had worked with him hadn’t ever actually seen him as a person, much less as a child. At most, he’d been considered a particularly advanced A.I. that just so happened to have been coded into a very nearly human mind. A computer twith physiological needs. An evolutionary precursor with the unfortunate tendency to yelp and squirm and - when it was truly malfunctioning - issue pleading error messages like ‘Please stop’, ‘I’m sorry’, and other disturbing protests.

Logan knows he didn’t act out often. Though it might have been an infrequent hindrance, no obstacle had to be tolerated if it could be removed.

Logan remembers sitting in front of Dr Picani after his procedure; his fingers had been cold, and his mouth dry. He’s rather certain he should have felt something more subjective - but perhaps ‘should’ wasn’t quite the right word; after all, Logan was feeling exactly the correct amount of numbness that the procedure had ensured.

“Logan, you know what the amygdala is,” Dr. Picani had begun slowly, and Logan remembers blinking, nodding. His face had remained impassive, and he distinctly remembers supposing he was being prompted for information. That was a common enough reason that he was spoken to.

“A portion of gray matter inside the cerebral hemisphere, a major contributor to the limbic system. It is credited with facilitating the experience of emotion.”

A strained smile, “Very good,” he’d been told, “Now, we’ve used some strategic scarring to help...mute some of those emotional responses to aid you in your tests. However, I don’t want you to worry-”

“I am not worried,” Logan remembers correcting.

“Erm, no. I suppose not, Kiddo,” Picani had winced, “let me rephrase: I want you to understand that this isn’t forever, okay? Eventually it will heal, and though it may take several years - I want you to know I’ll help you when it does; I don’t want you to have to undergo a procedure like that again.”

Now, though, Logan realizes zipping Roman’s bright-red pack, he wishes that it had been permanent. He hasn’t told any of them - not Patton, not Virgil, not Roman - but he’s been feeling. Slowly, of course, and only a little at a time...but even those vapor-thin impressions are too much. The good feelings are fleeting - worse still, he’s tied all of them to impermanent fixtures. To people. People who slip through his fingers at any given opportunity.

It’s only here, only now, that Logan realizes that everything he cares about is someone he can lose.

The only one he’s managed to hold onto in the past two days is staring at Roman’s slapdash handwriting as if he’s still not able to quite understand what he’s reading. Or even what Logan’s told him. 

“He - I can’t _believe_ he’d-” Virgil murmurs, finally attempting to put together the puzzle-piece sentence his mind must be providing him. He swallows, and Logan looks up from the pack to watch Virgil run a hand through his hair, dark brown eyes sunken, “This is _my_ fault, I’m the one who-”

No, he can’t allow that.

“Virgil,” Logan cuts off, “Pointing fingers has proven ineffective,” he asserts, trying to shake off the strange ache in his chest as he adds, “We all share responsibility in our current situation. We can’t let how we feel dictate our actions.”

The shorter boy glares at him, “_Oh_, so you’re the expert on emotions now, L?”

Quite the opposite, he wants to retort. But the words don’t quite come out that way. They - and he does mean they - do not need a Logan who is caustic, reactionary. They need him as he was intended. Composed. Impassive.

Logan’s brows knit together instead, “We need to remain focused on a solution as opposed to getting caught up on who did what. As I was saying, everyone could hypothetically accept blame-”

“Logan, you don’t know what you’re talking about!” Virgil’s grip tightens in his fist, “You didn’t tell Roman it was his fault Remus is an Envoy, _ you _ didn’t blame him on Patton-”

They don’t need him feeling. He shouldn’t cut Virgil off. He should let him vent-

“No. No. But I recommended we go to town, I failed to account for Remus getting out from under the shelving. I - I,” Logan coughs to cover the stammer in his voice, unused to the fevered tremor - and Virgil frowns, “allowed practicality to override my desire to free Patton. Additionally, I was unable to prevent Roman from leveling the blame onto his shoulders, resulting in his departure-”

They might not need him this way - but Logan’s not quite _sure how to stop_-

“Lo-”

“_So!_ That being said,” he may have raised his voice, “before anyone else decides that they are to bear the whole of our burdens, I request you to work with me rather than against yourself-”

“Specs, take a breath-”

“Because if I’m going to have to feel _anything_ at _all_, I refuse to let it be regret!”

And oh, Logan notices that perhaps he said that a notch louder than he intended.

Virgil’s staring at him, still holding Roman’s letter. Logan watches right back, coming to understand that he’s just tattled on himself. Logan clears his throat, and pushes up his glasses.

“I, um, apologize for that outburst.”

“No! You don’t have to say sorry for - for, whatever that was. Is.” Virgil says quickly, and is just as fast to fall quiet again. He rocks on his feet once before his gaze lowers down and to the left, his hand running over his face once with one hand. Twice, actually, with the other, pushing at his cheeks in tandem.

‘We’re a real mess, huh?” his laugh is really just a breathy exhale when his hands fall away, though one finds the back of his neck instead of joining the other at his side, “So. Uh. You okay, Specs? You wanna...tell me what’s up?”

“It’s of no concern,” Logan assures after a moment, and then adds, “I fear that - well, am actually certain - that I might have regained some emotional capacity.”

Virgil’s eyes grow wide, and Logan can’t place the expression he sees. It flickers between relief and horror, remorse, and pity - and if the word exists for such a brew of unpleasantness, Logan is pleased it’s not one people are familiar with. That it’s so often without need of use.

“Logan, that’s - that’s good right? I mean, do you think it’s good?” he adds gently, and Logan wishes he had a better answer than the one he can offer.

“...I don’t know. I think, perhaps, in time it may be. But,” and Logan feels that ‘but’ heavy on his shoulders, “at the moment I think it’s...cumbersome. Distracting.” 

I have no idea how you handle it, he doesn’t say.

Virgil hears him anyway, and nods carefully before shoving his hands into the dark pockets of his jacket.

“Do you need...to talk about it?”

Logan’s response is an immediate “No” punctuated with him slinging Roman’s pack of his shoulder. Virgil snickers, weakly, before nodding. The motion and action feel dulled, obligatory; but Logan thinks he might understand it. Normalcy is something beyond them at the moment. Who is he to fault Virgil for grabbing at its ghost?

“Later then,” Virgil tables, and while Logan isn’t looking forward to that particular discussion, he’s grateful to realize it’s been figuratively benched.

The next conversation isn’t one he wants to have either, though.

“I think we should go for Patton first,” Logan says, and Virgil’s focus sharpens on him. It’s like staring at broken glass, and knows his verbals steps will have to be made dainty.

“Logan, I know Ro’s a little more sturdy than Pat - but we actually have a chance at finding him, maybe. He can’t have gotten far, right? And I’d rather storm the Lab with three people as opposed to one,” Virgil reasons with him, and Logan hums - but doesn’t agree.

“Those are valid points - but I think the fact that Patton is in decidedly more dire straits, he is the most in need of assistance,” Virgil frowns but offers no argument, “ and while I think Roman may yet be close...close to what direction is difficult to say. We can’t know for sure just where he intends on going except ‘to get Patton’...which is exceptionally vague.”

“Well, so is ‘get Patton first’,” Virgil points out and Logan’s head shakes, going for his frames a second time.

“Perhaps not,” Logan responds, and for the first time in at least several hours, his lip quirks.

**~.~**

A common misunderstanding, Roman's discovered, is that people think he doesn't recognize his mistakes for what they are. That he blunders into them blindly. On the contrary, as Logan might say, Roman knows very darn well exactly what he's doing; he knows what a bad idea feels like intuitively. He commits to them strategically - like breaking a few eggs to make an omelette, he thinks a tad a deliriously as he poises the sharp points above the crook of his arm.

He's a prodigy in the art of slipping up. Almost as experienced with it as he is with Remus - and he knows his brother so well. Even now, he's sure - because as thoroughly as they'd distorted his twin, the fundamentals were there. And Remus was honest. Painfully, gracelessly, remarkably so. And Roman can feel his brother's phantom fingers hovering over the soft the bend in his arm when he'd mentioned his tracker. A hint. Roman's sure. A gift, even if he doesn't deserve it. 

A gift that's going to _hurt_ like hell.

No one would let him do this if they were alone. Logan would list every major artery Roman is more than willing to sever; Virgil would be at his hands, voice thin and snappy like a rubber band, and Patton - Patton would be a mess, wings revving and worried. He knows that all of them would tell him no, would happily take up the helm on his own well-being with the same dedication he knows very well he offers them. The difference is, he can handle it. He deserves it. And if it is a mistake, if it’s a brash leap in the wrong direction - then please let him be the one who makes it

Sucking in a steadying breath, Roman tries to focus on anything else. The river that he's landed by is almost a comfort; the sound of water vaulting over mossy rock, the occasional sound of chirping from birds Roman hasn't seen, but knows are watching him bunch over the rock he's leaned against so that when he breaks skin, the water catches it. And he's back to thinking about his arm again.

_ Terrific. _

Laughing a little, in disbelief or nervousness Roman's not sure, he licks at his lip and presses the rock even more heavily into his arm. This time, skin breaks - along with a vein that’s thick and red. One of many, Roman thinks as he flinches from the snappish pang that shoots through him. The pain is - brittle, but bearable. He winces all the same, his cheeks adopting a red hue that flushes brighter when he shoves the rock deeper, wedging it into the muscle with a twist. Another, when he doesn't see anything. It's gotta be there, he thinks, watching blood start to pool along the edges of his wound. Slowly, at first, but the more he rummages, the faster it comes. His heartbeat kicks up, from panic or pain, Roman’s not sure. He feels it more than he hears it, thudding in his ears.

It’s almost pretty when the water around him blushes, plumes of red engulfing the rushing water as it spreads like peacock feathers. But he mostly focuses on smell of smelted penny accosts his nose and it wrinkles...that, and also trying to piece together exactly what he’s looking for. 

Metal, he thinks almost definitely. It’s gotta be - or maybe a really fancy plastic. He’d probably know it if he saw it - but maybe there’s too much blood in the way. Maybe - he realizes after a couple moments that his grip is a little less certain around the rock. He should reaffirm his grip. Maybe when the pain doesn’t have the world reeling.

He’s a little nauseous,actually, and even a bit - tired. As he slumps forward a bit more on the thick rock he’s pressed against. some nonsensical part of him suggests maybe he should rest on it, maybe come at the problem later. Logan says that often enough, doesn’t he? Something about ‘fresh eyes’. 

His fingers are still buried in his arm, even as the rock slips from his clammy fingers. Like - like a bookmark, Roman muses, feeling a bit airborne. It’s effortless, if slightly cold, to drift for a moment, where the pain isn’t as grating and sleep promises to anchor him, let him sink and stay in the water for a minute.

He’s almost comfy, even when he thinks he feels a hand tug at his shoulders.

“Holy shit,” says the hand, which is at least a smidge odd because hands don’t speak. But kids also don’t have bird feathers, so he’s not exactly in a position to be telling anyone what they can and can’t do.

The hand is persistent though, and Roman starts to actually shift when he feels a second wrap around his other shoulder, after tying something painfully tight against his shoulder, and then make to move him. It’s enough to stir him, and Roman can almost feel the physical effort of trying to focus, like reality is a thing that he can grab if he just puts in the effort.

He manages, after a few grappling seconds, when he rolls his head up to the person who’s currently dragging him out of the river - it takes him a few seconds. 

The guy lifting him looks about Roman’s height, if slighter. Water creeps up his jeans like over-tall grass, and the leather jacket he’s wearing makes him look even more uncomfortable - but he’s not moving as if it is. Roman can’t tell how old he is - maybe Logan’s age, or a year of two older. It’s hard to pinpoint because of the large sunglasses over the guy’s eyes...but Roman can make out his own reflection. He looks like a right mess. But, he notes as his gaze traces the corners of the hands he can make out in the glasses, at least whoever’s touching him doesn’t have gloves on.

Wait. Someone is holding him. Dragging him out of the river. This is something that is happening to him. And he shouldn’t let it, even if he’s made himself an easy target.

The reality of the situation dawns on him all at once, and Roman’s on his feet. Or at least he tries, flailing only to have the guy hold him tighter - but even as the hold constricts, he can feel it hesitate, almost as if it’s reluctant...if a little put out.

“No!” he says since he’s confident that’s a word he can say without jumbling the letters out. He’s successful enough for him to consider it a win.

“Girl, I’m putting in _way_ more effort than I should have to in order to save your ass,” the voice tells him, “Like, I respect what you were trying to do, but this is the most cave-man approach I’ve ever seen.”

Roman jerks himself, and the guy - Roman thinks he knows him, somehow, but the dots just aren’t connecting, he just can’t place where he recognizes him from - the guy sits down, taking Roman with him. There’s no violence in the action, no reprimand. 

Roman doesn’t get it.

“Wha’?” he asks, because the world is still off its axis, and the sudden change in altitude isn’t exactly doing him any favors.

He feels the teen shrug behind him, “I’mma just wait for you to pass out then, if you’re gonna be all wiggly. Work smarter, not harder. Plus, sorry girl, but you lost a _hella_ of blood. A metric shit-ton.”

Judging by how much he hurts, the oversaturated shadows lancing across his eyes, and the quicksand blankness he keeps trailing into, Roman knows the guy is right. He swallows thickly, and a weak fear - but as much as he can muster - works up an embarrassing keen in the back of his throat. Surprisingly, a gentle hand greets it, and Roman feels like it shouldn’t feel as good as it does. He relaxes into it almost against his will.

“There ya go, girl. I’m not gonna hurt ya. Scout’s honor or whatever,” the voice promises, and...and for some reason, Roman _believes_ him. He doesn’t have much of a choice, because seconds later the fight bleeds out of his body, and Roman sinks into it with a sigh.

After a beat or two to make sure Mr. Foot By The Foot Feathers actually is well and truly unconscious, Remy releases a breath, and then pushes himself out from under the guy - who, by the way, is heavier than he looks.

Knowing he’ll get less of a fight if he does so now rather than later, Remy turns his attention to Roman’s arm, pulling down the portion of the shirt he’d ripped off as a makeshift bandage. The wound is pretty bad, and Remy’s pretty sure Feathers has lost...eh, at least a a quart and half of blood. That’s fixable though, and the guy was at least close. Remy doesn’t know how, but the guy was lucky enough for him to set off his warning beacon, so maybe ‘luck’ is a factor.

Whatever the case, Remy hums the song that’s played for the umpteenth time in a row on the radio - something new and poppy he hasn’t bothered to learn the name of. It’s probably a bit of a mood-killer, but beat’s catchy, he thinks as he forces himself to slip his deft fingers into Roman’s arm.

The guy winces a bit, but doesn’t wake. Not a huge shocker, even if Remy’s grateful.

“Ah! _There_ she is,” Remy purrs when he strikes gold, and then pulls of a little, hard, black square - the kind of thing that would be inconspicuous if it weren’t, y’know, buried in an arm.

He keeps humming as he mashes the thing with his foot, pressing it into the rocky shore of the river as casually as one might crush a spider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, this chapter is a monster. Which explains the late update. But you have to understand it just didn't want to end.
> 
> Also, this is all pseudo-science. However, I strongly discourage scarring your amygdala and also refuse to condone severing the bronchial artery in order to prove me wrong. Please don't do that.


End file.
